Читать книгу Casey Templeton Mysteries 2-Book Bundle - Gwen Molnar - Страница 5

Casey could breathe, but could he free himself? By digging the heel of his right boot into the gravel under the snow, he was able to push up and slide a little. It took ages, but he finally made it, picked up his flashlight, and shone it on the man’s face.

“Mr. Deverell!” What the heck was his science teacher doing out here?

Remembering that he should press his fingers on the thumb side of the wrist, Casey felt for Mr. Deverell’s pulse. There was one, but it was faint and irregular. He took off his coat and folded it for a pillow. His hand slipped as he lifted his teacher’s head, and his fingers came away sticky. He shone the light on his hand — blood!

Casey covered the distance between the gate and the front door in seconds. He beamed his light around the big front room, knowing he needed something to pull Mr. Deverell back to the house so the man could defrost. A big piece of cardboard would do, but there was nothing like that. And there was nothing in the kitchen or in the unfinished lean-to behind the kitchen.

Back in the living room, Casey swung the light around again, more slowly this time. The drapes! He yanked them down, sending their hooks flying, gathered them in a ball, and rushed out. Casey put his coat back on, spread one of the drapes beside the unconscious man, and rolled him onto it. Tucking the other drape around Mr. Deverell, Casey grabbed the two corners under his teacher’s head, lifted them off the ground, and pulled. There was enough snow so that the improvised “sleigh” glided easily up to the steps. But now what? The pillows! He could shove one under Mr. Deverell’s head, one under his middle, and one under his legs, then build them up until he got the man high enough to pull into the room. As he lifted two pillows, his dad’s pipe rolled onto the floor. With relief Casey pocketed it and hurried out.

With his bloodstained coat back on, sweat poured down inside his shirt and cooled as Casey strained to lift the heavy man higher and higher on the pillows. Every time he got the feet up one pillow height a leg fell or, at the head end, an arm. When he finally had Mr. Deverell elevated enough, he spread a drape on the porch, rolled him onto it, and dragged the man into the house.

It wasn’t all that much warmer inside than out, but Casey knew that was good, not bad. He had read somewhere that heating someone with hypothermia too fast was dangerous. Still, he had to heat Mr. Deverell somewhat, and the only way to do it was to get a blaze going in the fireplace. Since there was no cardboard around to start a fire, he had to use the chocolate-chip cookie bag he had left on the kitchen counter earlier in the day, as well as other scraps of paper on the floor. Casey had noticed that the unfinished lean-to had rough wooden slats tacked over tarpaper. He pried off six or seven and broke them in two across his knee.

Casey fumbled for the matches he had used to light his dad’s pipe. Had it only been a few hours ago? It seemed like a month. There were only three left in the Ducks and Drakes matchbook he had scooped up from Hank’s desk. Ducks and Drakes was Richford’s premier café and Hank’s favourite hangout.

One precious match went out as he tried to light the cookie package he had put under the broken slats in the fireplace. The red corrugated plastic cookie divider flared briefly, then went out. Casey crunched up all the bits of paper he had found into a loose ball and lit an edge of paper with his last match. It smouldered, seemed to die, then flared again. The ragged break of a slat caught fire, and in seconds all the wood started burning as smoke and ash billowed back into the room. Coughing, sputtering, and calling himself an idiot for not thinking of the flue, Casey pushed through the smoke and pressed it open. The smoke swept back and roared up the chimney as the fire burned even more quickly.

The smell would probably be awful, but all Casey could think to put on the flames were the drapes. He eased one from under Mr. Deverell, bunched it loosely, and held a corner to the fire until it ignited. It gave off a lot of heat.

If he packed pillows around Mr. Deverell, he could use the other drape, too. Casey looked around. “Yikes!” he shouted. The pillows outside were getting wet. Back out on the porch, he whacked pillows together, getting off all the snow he could, then returned to the fire and packed them close to and on top of his teacher.

It was time to concentrate on the still-unconscious Mr. Deverell. Was his pulse a little stronger? Casey hoped so, but he couldn’t be certain. His teacher needed medical help, and soon. Casey didn’t figure he should leave him alone for as long as it would take to get back to town, and for the ambulance to get from town to the Old Willson Place by the back road it would have to take.

He had read that sometimes there were boxes on top of remote telephone poles that linemen used to call for supplies. Taking the flashlight, Casey went out to the gate and craned his neck. He could barely make out the top of the pole and couldn’t see if a box was there. And, anyway, how would he be able to climb up to get at it? There might not be a box, but there was a heavy, snow-crested wire sagging from the top of the pole to the house. Casey walked back under it. It looked as if the wire entered the house above a boarded-up attic window. But there was no electricity in the house — never had been since C. Wilberforce Willson had ripped it out when his grieving wife had finally taken her own life by electrocuting herself.

Back in the house, Casey put the second drape on the fire, then shone his light on the door to the attic. The heavy oak boards crossing over the door were too solid for him to remove, but as he slid a hand along one of the boards, something struck him as odd. Where there used to be nails holding the oak board, there were now screws. And the place where one of the screw heads showed was exactly over a gap between the door and the wall. The shaft of a long brass screw, the kind of screw Casey and Bryan had had a hard time finding for their science project last month, went straight into the gap, not into anything solid. He bent down and scrutinized the screw directly below it. Same thing. He reached through the crosspiece for the partly covered doorknob and yanked. The door, crosspieces and all, swung open, and Casey shone the light up as he negotiated the steep and narrow attic steps.

He saw a light switch on a pillar at the top of the steps and turned it on. The switch was connected to a four-way plug attached to one of two heavy black cables that came through the outer wall of the house above the boarded-up window. A small electric baseboard heater that radiated a bit of warmth was plugged into the same outlet as were a computer, printer, and scanner sitting on a square double desk in the centre of the room. Also on the double desk were a fax machine, DVD player, and videotape machine. Casey had heard Hank talking about “phone phreaks” who could tap into telephone company test lines. He figured they were at work here.

The room was like the RCMP strategy room his dad had once taken the Templeton family through. Like that room, this one was painted pale yellow green. The walls were lined with wide shelves on which leaflets, posters, catalogues, newspapers, videotapes, audiotapes, CDs, DVDs, and books were stacked, with bulging cardboard cartons pushed under the lower shelves.

One of the pamphlets was identical to those everyone in town had found about a month ago either stuck behind their car windshield wipers or in their mailboxes. They were full of biblical quotes and said bad things about gays and lesbians.

Casey picked up a poster. It read HONK IF YOU HATE GYPSIES. Another declared THE HOLOCAUST IS A HOAX, while a third insisted that ASIAN IMMIGRANTS ARE TAKING ALL THE JOBS — LET’S STOP THEM COMING HERE BEFORE THEY TAKE OVER THE COUNTRY.

He had seen two of the posters taped on the window of an empty store. Casey told himself he could check the rest of the stuff in the room later. Right now he had to contact somebody and get help. He turned on the fax. Nothing. Next he tried the computer. Maybe he could email Hank. The computer worked, and he was able to send a message to his brother. According to the machine, his message had been sent but that didn’t mean Hank would look at it anytime soon. Who else had an email address he knew by heart? No one else in Richford sprang to mind. He hadn’t been here long enough. But what about his grandmother in Regina!

Casey and his grandmother had “talked” from all over the place. But this was Friday. Da Vinci’s Inquest reruns were on television, and she would be watching the show right now. He sent her a message, anyway.

Grandma, call the police in Richford and tell them to get out to the Old Willson with Two Ls Place right away. Tell them I’m here with Mr. Deverell, my science teacher, and that he’s been hit on the head and is unconscious. This isn’t a joke. Do it, Grandma, and do it now. Please … Casey.

Who else could he contact? He wished more than ever that his parents had let him have a cell phone. It would have come in handy right now. Then he remembered the ad for the computer store in the new mall where Hank had won the prize. This time his message was:

This isn’t a joke. My name is Casey Templeton. Hank, my brother, won your computer prize. I’m out at the Old Willson with Two Ls Place, using a computer that’s here in the attic. Mr. Deverell, the science teacher at Clarence Wilberforce Willson High School in Richford, Alberta, is half frozen, badly hurt, and unconscious. Please contact the police and have them get medical help here right away.

That was all Casey could think of doing. He went back to the living room. The fire was almost out, and though he had left the attic door open, the lower room was no warmer. All he had to put on the fire was a pillow. It ignited slowly, sent more smelly billows of ash into the room, and gradually began to burn. Casey sat against the wall beside Mr. Deverell, gently easing the teacher’s battered head onto his lap.

So what was the payoff for the haters? Casey wondered as he closed his eyes and settled his shoulders more comfortably. What was the point of all the crazy stuff they were doing? Were they aiming just to make life miserable for the groups they focused their hate on — Jews, immigrants, gays, old people, and the disabled — or did they want to get rid of them entirely? That was pretty heavy thinking, and Casey tried to get his mind on something else.

Only the occasional sizzle of burning feathers broke the silence in the old house. Casey burrowed deeper into his coat for warmth, but the bare floor was so cold that his backside was getting numb. He leaned over for a pillow and tucked it under him. At least he could sit in comfort. Casey eased Mr. Deverell’s left arm upward, carefully pulled off the stiff glove, and gently rubbed the man’s icy hand. When it started to feel a little less cold, Casey did the same thing for the right hand.

His thoughts drifted back to the room with all the hate literature. It must be a kind of “hate cell,” a sort of headquarters for racists. There had been a real buzz in Richford when a new family had moved down the street from the Templeton house a few weeks ago. Casey had walked to school with the two children, Laszlo and Anna, both in grade one, though Laszlo was several years older than his sister. The language they spoke had fascinated Casey. His dad had said it was called Romany. The kids’ mother, his father had told him, was a Roma or Gypsy who had married Daisy Olberg’s kid brother, Jack McKay, when he was doing repairs on a Canadian nuclear reactor in Romania many years ago.

“But Maria wasn’t the kind of Gypsy who goes from place to place in a caravan,” his father had said. “Daisy tells us Maria was the daughter of a Gypsy orchestra leader in an upscale Bucharest hotel. She sang with the orchestra, and that’s where Jack met her. When Jack was killed, the government helped Daisy bring Maria and the children to live in Richford.”

Two weeks ago a poster, the HONK IF YOU HATE GYPSIES one, had been found stapled to the gate in front of the Olbergs’ place. Someone had heard a horn honking around two in the morning, but nobody had seen the car or had any idea who was doing the honking. And then there was the hit-and-run of Maria McKay.

“Daisy told me,” Casey’s mother had said to Casey and his dad, “that even before the ‘accident,’ Maria was finding Richford very limiting and was thinking of moving away. This will make her want to move all the more.”

The week before Maria was struck by a car a pipe bomb had gone off at the Finegoods’ big clothing and dry goods store. Swastikas were painted on their house’s double garage doors, with THE HOLOCAUST IS A HOAX poster taped in the middle of them. The poster had been printed by the National Alliance. Hank had discovered that the National Alliance was the largest and most active neo-Nazi organization in the United States and Canada.

“The Web info says,” Hank had quoted to Casey, “that the National Alliance’s current strength can be attributed to ‘its skillful embrace of technology, its willingness to cooperate with other extremists, its energetic recruitment and other promotional activities, and its vicious propaganda.’”

“I’m telling you, Casey,” Marcie Finegood had said as they were going into English class the day after the bombing, “whoever did that to my dad’s store better watch out!” Her eyes were red and her eyelids swollen, but her chin was thrust forward. “I’m mad as heck and I’m ready to fight back.”

“I’m with you, Marcie,” he had said, smiling. “I’m ready to do something radically mean to whoever did this to your family.”

He felt good now, knowing his discoveries would be the first step toward finding out who was responsible.

A tremor went through the hand Casey was rubbing — the first sign of life in Mr. Deverell besides a pulse and shallow breathing. Would his messages get through to the Richford police? Casey wondered. What if they didn’t? What if he had to spend the night in this cold room? He couldn’t keep the fire going much longer, and if Mr. Deverell started to cool down again, that wouldn’t be good.

Casey turned off the flashlight to conserve the battery. Was there anything else he could do? He switched on the light again to check his watch — nine-thirty. The two hours he had given himself to get the pipe and return home were up. Not that his parents would be home anytime soon.

He thought he would try a little telepathy. Grandma, can you hear me? Please open your email and follow instructions. Hank, finish your game and check your email … check your mail … check your mail … Hank, check your email right now!

Casey waited, then put another pillow on the fire. Even though he was cold, it was hard to stay awake. He went through the telepathy bit another couple of times, but nothing happened. “I’ll try it one more time,” he whispered to himself, but as he chanted, sleep overcame him. A quick movement of Mr. Deverell’s head jerked him awake, though. Why was the room so terribly cold?

“Oh, no!” Casey put Mr. Deverell’s head down gently and crawled over to the fireplace. Not a spark! He tried blowing on the smouldering pillow. A cloud of half-burned feathers and ashes flew into his eyes.

Poor Mr. Deverell, he thought, wouldn’t last long now. Casey had to get back to town. He just had to.

Tucking the last few pillows tightly around his teacher, Casey picked up the flashlight. It wouldn’t go on. He unscrewed the bottom and switched the batteries. It flickered on and off a few times and then went out. Would he dare try getting back to town without the light? He could see the headline in the national edition of Toronto’s Globe and Mail, which the Templetons had delivered each morning: BOY AND TEACHER VICTIMS OF CENTRAL ALBERTA’S FIRST VICIOUS SNOWSTORM.

Casey shut the door of the Old Willson Place, crossed the porch, and went down the front steps. He ploughed through the deep snow as far as the gate, then trudged down the road to the field. Crossing the frozen field the first time had been hard; re-crossing it now with the snow so deep would be almost impossible.

At least he could tell if he was going straight across. If his progress was too easy, that meant he was moving along a furrow, not over it, so he pushed himself over another snow-piled furrow, then another until he fell. Snow spilled into his boots, and he felt the cold on his bare legs above his socks.

What if he took a tumble and couldn’t get up again? He would freeze to death and so would Mr. Deverell.

Casey hauled himself to his feet. A few furrows later he fell again and then again. Each time he sprawled a little longer in the snow. Each time it took more effort to get up until at last he stayed put.

“Get up!” he yelled. “Get going!”

Another voice, inside him, insisted, I can’t. It’s so nice and quiet here and I feel so deliciously sleepy. I’ll just lie here a little longer.

“Get up, Casey! Get up!”

Later … after, he thought. Then he began to dream about beating everyone else in the world at the snowboarding competition in Banff. Eventually, he wasn’t dreaming at all. He just lay there, buried in the heavy snow.